


snow buntings

by librarby



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), be careful, just a few mentions of past suicidal thoughts but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26975068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarby/pseuds/librarby
Summary: Jon's stomach twists when he pushes open a door, unsure of what exactly he’ll find on the other side–another dead body, slumped over in the corner? A maze of twisting corridors, impossible to escape? Something hungry, demanding more endless sacrifices?But, without fail, he just finds Martin.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 114





	snow buntings

**Author's Note:**

> i have diseases and things wrong with me. take this

Jonathan Sims has been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the day they unlocked the door to Daisy’s safehouse. 

(Jonathan Sims has been waiting for the other shoe to drop since he was eight years old.)

Sometimes it seems that Jon’s brain can wrap itself around the _house_ concept of the safehouse, but not the _safe_ part. His stomach twists when he pushes open a door, unsure of what exactly he’ll find on the other side—another dead body, slumped over in the corner? A maze of twisting corridors, impossible to escape? Something hungry, demanding more endless sacrifices? 

But, without fail, he just finds Martin.

* * *

Martin looks up from where his notebook is sitting open on the table, smiling gently (which in turn makes Jon’s heart thrum against his chest for a different reason than anxiety).

“Good morning.” 

Jon exhales. “Good morning. What are you writing?” He asks as he makes his way into the kitchen, where he discovers Martin has already poured him a mug of tea.

“Oh, nothing. Just a few lines about the birds we saw the other day. The, uh, the–” He snaps his fingers a few times. 

“Snow buntings.” Jon provides, pushing the lever down on the toaster. 

Martin’s face lights up. “Snow buntings! Yes, thank you.” He takes a moment to scribble something in the margins. “But, uh, yes. I’m just reworking some of the phrasing.” 

(Jon shoves aside some information the Eye is providing him about snow buntings and how they, on average, weigh between thirty and forty grams.)

Humming in acknowledgement, he gathers up his toast and mug, walking back to sit across from Martin. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes, save the scratch of Martin’s pen and whatever bird is outside the window (a landrail, the Eye says). 

Jon closes his hands around his mug, focusing on the warmth that spreads throughout his body. He watches Martin’s hands move, knowing he’ll be able to catch him muttering small snippets of it throughout the day as he fights with the wording. 

It’s nice. 

It’s _really_ nice. 

So why does he feel....guilty? Wrong? Scared?

Like something’s missing?

As usual, he only sits in those thoughts for a few minutes before Martin puts his pen down and props his head up on his hand. “Okay. What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“You have your thinking face on. That’s the face you make when you’re thinking about your morality or whatever.” 

“I’m–” Jon tries to protest but just sighs instead. “I don’t know. I just...I never thought I’d have this.” 

“Have what?” Martin asks. "A house? A way out of the Institute?" Jon shakes his head. 

“Well, yes, but a...a life.” He says, fingers tapping at the handle of his mug. 

“A life.” Martin echoes. “What do you mean?” 

Jon looks away, choosing instead to focus on the photo of Basira and Daisy that hangs on the wall opposite the kitchen (it felt rude to take it down, like speaking ill of the dead). 

“Well. It’s as though I’m simply waiting for the next thing to happen.” He says, then stops. He’s never been good with words (Martin’s good with words).

(Jon is good at tearing them out of people.)

Martin reaches across to tap on the back of his hand. He looks down and realizes he’s gripping the mug handle so hard that his knuckles are white. 

Their fingers intertwine, puzzle pieces fitting together with such precision that it seems impossible to tell they were ever separate. 

Jon takes in a few breaths before continuing. “I feel as though I’m just waiting for it to all happen again. To read the wrong book or open the wrong door, just pure bad luck that will drag me back to whatever Entity wants to have it’s turn with me this time.

I’ve been so close so many times. Any of those things could have killed me. I should be trapped deep below creation, falling through the infinite sky, burning in the center of the dark sun. I should be lying in a hospital bed, lying in a _morgue_.” 

He has to take another deep breath. Martin traces lines into his wrist (the ulnocarpal joint, the Eye whispers). 

“I died. But I came back to you, _for_ you.” Jon says quietly. “And I suppose it’s...it’s odd for me to not want that anymore. To be dead. I’ve spent the past few years wondering which encounter would finally be the one but...but instead I’m here.” 

Martin squeezes his hand. He doesn’t say anything, but Jon finds he doesn’t need to. He just knows, with a lowercase ‘k’, without any intervention by some eldritch force. 

Just Martin. 

Jon finishes his tea. Martin reads a line of poetry out to make sure the cadence is good. 

(Snow buntings are well adapted to harsh conditions, the Eye says, making them the only songbird that can live in far northerly places.)

(Jon shares this fact. Martin says he just thinks they’re pretty.)

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ jonbinary !


End file.
